


Blood and Feather Beats the Weather

by My_Soul_and_Perfume



Series: Give Me Prompts! [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absurdism, Angel Dean Winchester, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 06:11:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10565262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Soul_and_Perfume/pseuds/My_Soul_and_Perfume
Summary: He speaks up before Dean does. "Let's go home. I want to take care of you." in that low growl he knows Dean loves.The sandy wall of brick rubs Dean's wings the wrong way as Cas pushes him back further, blue eyes blazing with obvious--but muted--distress. He can practically feel Cas' persistence through the heaviness of his free hand, pressing on Dean's chest with more force each second.  He bites back a hiss; the soreness from last night has come back, something Dean hasn't noticed until now, and he is growing even more nervous than he was before. Castiel is good at reading through pain and Dean is bad at hiding it.He gives way to the pressure a while longer, a small sliver of hope that his partner will ease up some. But he isn't, and the pain is getting worse.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Supernatural fiction in an alternate universe, where Dean was born and raised as an angle. 
> 
> Warning: Graphic detail
> 
> Critique comments are always welcome!  
> Enjoy!

**Blood and Weather Beat the Weather**

 

 

>  "If you look up, what do you see? Beyond the layer of white and blue, that is. Many will answer that they see nothing, and that it is impossible to draw any other conclusions because our sight is, in fact, limited. But others, they will answer with longing and hope, "Another world is above us.""

                                                                                             -My atheist experience

* * *

 

       Dean is tired, justly so.

       His wings are sore, his vessel isn't exactly in the best shape, and people are _really_ starting to make him mad. Like, "If I were allowed to cuss your head off I wouldn't hesitate" mad. He's been feeling this way lately with no other way to explain it or express what's going on in his head because...well just because. Dean can't afford to "bitch and moan" as the humans say. There's work to do, always, and it's rare that he even gets more than a day's worth of rest. Whether it be ushering souls to and from the Gates or looking down from his post in Heaven, as long as Dean remains here, his duties will always be top priority.

       Everything is running smoothly, and not to brag or anything, but with Dean's powers Earth and Heaven don't exactly need His help keeping the peace. Not that they don't need God, of course they need Him! But Dean's just saying-

       -Um.

       What _was_ he saying?

       "You need some sleep Dean." he sighs, rubbing his temples. The children at the park screech and whine and banter, some falling off of swing sets and others riding down the slide in doubles. He wonders if this is normal human behavior and how the children manage to not mark up their bodies despite plundering to their death on the monkey bars every day. Their parents don't seem worried and that's just all the more bizarre, Dean notes. The majority of the crowd are women (blonde, brunette, tan, pale) and are in relaxed postures sitting at park bungalows.

       "Oh! I'm so sorry!" A short lady gasps in apology. She has stocky muscles and long black hair. She picks up her stroller (it must have been at least ten pounds) from Dean's crushed foot to relieve the pressure, and sets it aside the bench he sits on. Dean can see a baby flailing about at the activity, whining in protest.

       He smiles charmingly and sits up straighter, letting his palms slide up his jean clad thighs. "It's fine. Accidents happen."

       "But, are you sure? This thing is pretty heavy."

       "Look." Dean holds up his foot and wiggles it around some. "Still works." The lady smiles, as red as a tomato, still embarrassed. To Dean's satisfaction, she nods and continues on as if nothing happened.

        Resuming his activities, Dean relaxes some and watches the kids play. He sits there for hours, posture soft and approachable, offering a smile to anyone who passes by, and hopes that he doesn't look like a...a...what do they say? Oh! Pervert! Still, humans are unpredictable. Anything could happen.

       Around evening though, just as the sun sets, Dean grows impatient. There hasn't been any work for him to do all day. Nobody has called for him, there are no prayers he can answer, not even a cat stuck in a tree. So pretty much, he's wasted an entire day doing nothing.

_Wonderful. How's that gonna look to the big guy?_

       "Not pretty." Dean answers. Sitting has made his bones stiff and now the need to stretch them out is tempting. So he calls it a day and rises from the bench, hearing joints pop (everywhere) as he stands to full height. Even though the park is void of humans, he gives one last hopeful glance around the area before clenching his jaw in frustration, and flies away.

       He instantly regrets it.

       Dean lands none too gracefully in his chambers, falling to his knees and gasping for breath. His wings lay on his back like the weight of ten boulders, sore in all the right places, twitching. He can literally _feel_ them pulsing from root to tip, causing a strange lightheaded feeling that he's never experienced before. He grimaces and twists his head around to view the damage, but finds nothing there. His wings look completely normal.

       "Yeah." the angel concludes. "Sleep is good."

* * *

 

       "Dean." Castiel acknowledges. The younger angel startles in front of him. He turns around with a smile and strides toward Castiel eagerly. A firm squeeze on the upper bicep is how they greet; always has been for the decades they've known each other.

       "Hey, Cas." The angel's shoulders relax at the endearing 'nickname'. Castiel takes a good, long look at Dean. The smile once curling his lips, upturn into a frown.

       "You haven't been taking care of yourself."

       Dean scoffs, "There's no time for that."

       Castiel's face turns sour, eyes livid, skin suddenly red. "Dean!" he says tersely.

       Several people give them curious glances in the café, poking their heads from behind booths and turning attention away from cell phones. Castiel gives them an apologetic smile, then sends Dean a look saying, 'Let's go'.

       "Dean, no one is disappointed in you." Castiel reminds once they've exited the café.

       "Not yet."

       "With the way you're working, I highly doubt--"

       "Can't I just serve Heaven in peace? Is it a crime?" 

       "You're _not_ bulletproof Dean. Look at you!" Castiel stops in front of the entrance to gesture at Dean's haggard appearance, to the younger man's annoyance. The wind whips at Cas' gelled hair, unsticking a few strands from the adhesive. Dean has an irritating urge to comb them back in place.

       "Well technically-" he stutters.

        Castiel wonders if Dean will ever stop being so stubborn, and if he can skip to that moment in time. With years more experience on him, Castiel knows what happens after an angel starts taking neglecting their vessel.

       A perfect example would be Dean, whose blue jeans are stained with dirt and ripped at the knees, black tee shirt wrinkled, and snug hunter's jacket missing. Not to mention the obvious bruising underneath his eyes and occasional tick of his jaw that happens whenever he's tired. Castiel says as much.

       "Look, can we just go home?" Dean begs. Castiel decides to let the argument go for now.

        Dean brings a shaky hand to Cas' shoulder and looks at him with gleaming eyes.

       Castiel sighs exasperatedly, pushing Dean against the wall to place a kiss on his lips. Dean hums, allowing his eyelids to drop. He tongues and sucks at Cas' lower lip, causing a quiet _smack_ to sound as they pull apart. Castiel cups the younger angel's cheek and palms the rough stubble along his jaw; Dean leans into it gratefully. He places a hand around the back of Cas' neck in return.

Dean pulls apart a little breathless. _Damn._ He smirks at Cas and chuckles when the other blushes. It's rare that they ever get to be intimate, mainly because Dean is always working. If they could have sex every day, chances are that Dean would have persuaded Castiel into sleeping in the same bed every night by now. But with so many important people in Heaven watching, Dean feels it's best to keep things professional. Kissing is an earned indulgence.

       Castiel, on the other hand, loves to be physical. Any type of touching is erotic and exciting to him and he always craves more when it comes to Dean. However, despite the temptation, Castiel's lover's morals are given the respect they deserve. This doesn't mean that they can't do other things however, and Castiel is hoping that Dean is willing to play some more tonight.

       In that low growl he knows Dean loves, Castiel speaks up before Dean gets the chance. His eyes are dizzyingly blue from kissing still. "Let's go home. I want to take care of you." he begs.

       The sandy wall of brick rubs Dean's wings the wrong way as Cas pushes him back further, blue eyes blazing with obvious--but muted--distress. He can practically feel Cas' persistence through the heaviness of his hand, pressing on Dean's chest with more force each second.  Dean bites back a hiss; the soreness from last night has come back and he is growing even more nervous than he was before. Castiel is good at reading pain and Dean is bad at hiding it.

       He submits to the pressure a while longer, hoping that his partner will see the pleading in his eyes and ease up some. But he isn't, and the pain is getting worse.

       "Okay." Dean gasps. "Okay." But Castiel continues to stare. He thinks the angel is about to kiss him again by the twitching of his pink lips, but notices how Cas' eyes move back and forth, like he's reading a book. Dean reacts too late.

       Before he can protest, they land in Castiel's chamber within seconds.

       While Dean is shaking in fear, Castiel rages as he tackles Dean onto the wooden table. He pins the younger angel down with a single forearm, and shuts him up with a glare to stop his babbling. The shirt is ripped from his torso and discarded on the floor. Castiel pales.

       His wings are....

       Swallowing in disgust, he clenches his jaw and tries to get his breathing under control, only letting up on Dean's back once he's calm.

       "Dean. This has gone _too_ far!"

       "I can explain."

      "I don't want you to explain, I just want to know why you let it get this bad. How long have you been in pain?" The feathers on his wings are sticking up in odd places, some lodged in spaces where they shouldn't be, causing others to bend at an awkward angle. The feathers have turned grey, rather than a natural, shiny black laquer. They feel as dry as Raphael's humor.

       Dean winces when Castiel presses on an especially sore spot, but covers it up with a smirk to feign nonchalance.  In truth, he feels a little lightheaded, and definitely nauseous. Add this to the fact that he has been denying his vessel food and nutrients, the lack of sleep, and overbearing stress, Dean feels like absolute dog shit. (Excuse his French.)

      "I didn't notice."

       "Dean are you serious? Have you looked at yourself lately?!" The white of Castiel's eyes sting. His voice gets weaker and more tired the longer they argue. He can barely keep his eyes on Dean's wings for too long, their horrible appearance sending chills down his spine. They look worse than Dean told himself they are.

       "Look Cas, they don't feel that--Ah! Damn it!" He bangs his forehead on the wooden table top harshly and cries out in pain. "Okay, okay. So they're a little ugly."

       "Dean." Cas cries. "There's blood in your wings."

       The younger angel draws a sharp breath, bones locking into place in terror. He wheezes painfully and flinches back from Castiel's touch. Dean finally gets released from his grasp, giving him the perfect opportunity to turn his head around and get a good look, cringing at what he finds. He shifts through his feathers carefully, finding specks of red every now and then. What he finds at the base of a matted bunch of feathers has him dropping to his knees and vomiting on the floor.

       They're _bruised._ Purple and green where knots have twisted up the roots. This horrible mutation has led to the skin stretching past its limit and has begun ripping open, causing blood to trickle from in streams, getting caked into the feathers. The less recently bruised skin is layered in puss, oozing and mixing disgustingly with his blood. The lack of blood flow has probably led to the feathers greying, most likely their dryness as well.

       "That's disgusting." Dean moans, as he continues to retch pitifully on the floor of Cas' bedroom.

       "Very. Good job screwing yourself up, kid." Balthazar chimes. "You weren't kidding Cas, they look horrible."

       Castiel snarls, "Can you help him or not?"

       Balthazar only shrugs. "Sure, if you hold him down."

       "Hold me down for what?" Wiping the vomit from his mouth, Dean snaps his fingers to clear away the mess. Now absolutely exhausted and empty, he lay back on his palms and breathes deeply with closed eyes. Chances are, Castiel called Balthazar in as reinforcement, though he isn't sure what for. What he can say, for sure, is that he doesn't want anyone to touch his wings. He would rather lick his wounds in private.

       "Well,  this is going to take more than one angle sweetheart." Balthazar shudders uncomfortably as he nears closer to Dean. "But what I'm curious about," Castiel meets his eyes from across the room, "Is why your grace hasn't cleaned this shit up earlier. Even if you haven't been grooming them properly, the feathers should have been falling out on their own."

       "He hasn't been taking care of himself." Castiel supports. He wipes the tears from his eyes and briskly strides back to his lover, ignoring the spark in his heartbeat as he nears closer.

       "Why the fuck not?" Balthazar sighs. While Dean has his attention turned on Cas, he rakes his fingers gently through the feathers. Dean flinches and yelps on contact. "Yep, definitely fucked them up." he mutters.

       "I'm just busy, that's all." he says. Castiel gives him a disappointed look.

       "Well," Balthazar sighs, "you two love birds can talk about each other's feelings when I'm done." He gestures to Castiel curtly, who immediately flips Dean on his front and straddles his waist. "For now though, just try not to puke again."

       "Hey!" Dean shouts. He glares at Balthazar from the corner of his eye, "What are you doing? No, no! Don't touch me! Cas!" Something thick and white is shoved between his teeth while Dean hollers anxiously.

       "You brought this on yourself." they say unanimously. But Dean fights stubbornly. He's been working hard, making his peers proud everyday and putting a smile on their usually-expressionless faces. So what is a little neglect if it makes everyone happy? So what is a little bruising beneath his eyes? Who cares if waking up is a little harder than usual? There's nothing the others can do. Shouldn't he be receiving some sort of reward or a pat on the back for _trying_ instead of this?

       Since he was born from God's hand, Dean has strived to be nothing short of perfect in His eyes. He found the need to _be_ perfect, in more ways than one.

       Obviously his efforts weren't enough.

       "Hold him down, Cas!" Balthazar growls, plucking each feather with precision. Dean is writhing and shaking and moaning beneath their weight. If he bothered to take care of this earlier, he wouldn't be in so much pain. And this is only the first wing.

       Castiel concentrates all of his weight on Dean's back and shoulders. While Balthazar plucks grey feathers swiftly, Castiel reads Dean's thoughts, searching for a reason why he's harmed himself like this. An angel's wings are his pride and joy. You couldn't just ignore them or their beauty. They're God's presents, after all.

       Once he's searched deep enough, Castiel pales at what he hears."You didn't tell me you were feeling that way." he whispers. "I didn't know--"

       "Ghn!" Dean bucks beneath his grip, nearly cracking his skull against Balthazar's forehead. The eldest angel looks at Castiel furiously.

       "I said," he growls, "keep a strong grip on him." Blood trickles from the tips of his fingers, some smudged on his wrists too. If Dean doesn't call down, this could become a game of Hit or Miss. Say that Balthazar accidentally plucks one of the newly grown feathers, some of the nerves could detach from his skin and cause even more damage, and definitely affect his flyting skills in the long run.

       "Dean." Castiel calls. The younger angel groans into the gag, clenching his teeth, needle sharp canines ripping holes into it. Castiel tries to get a good look at him, but Dean stares at the ground, not ready to wave the white flag.

       Then a scream rips its way out his throat, shredding his gullet. He feels like his back is on fire, as if for every feather plucked, a hot coal replaces its spot. He can't get a full inhale in, can't breathe, can't think, only seeing stars before his very eyes. Dead doesn't realize that he has vomited through the gag again, chin layered thick with saliva and soaking through it. He doesn't notice when Castiel snaps his fingers and replaces it with a new one.

       "Dean." he calls again. "I'm going to give you some of my grace to help you relax." Balthazar looks at him like he's just lost that perfect, good-natured brain of his. Castiel ignores his stare. "It might sting a little at first, but you'll feel better afterward."

       "Woah! Woah! Hey, he can handle a little pain." Balthazar argues. Bloodied hands rest on Dean's shoulders.

       "Obviously not. You forget, Balthazar, that he's younger than us. Technically these wings are still new."

       "Well heads up, Cas, giving him a little grace won't drown out the pain. This is the equivalent of breaking someone's arm over and over again, you get that right? Grace is only going to make him sleepy, not comfortable."

       "Well what do you suggest I do? Dean can't continue like this, he's gotten sick twice!"

       "Not my problem. Dean has brought this on himself, and you know that." The two angels fix themselves in a stare, muting Dean's cries momentarily. Cas is the first to back down.

       "I know." he sighs. "I don't want him to be in pain though."

       Balthazar nods, getting back to work. He doesn't attempt to reassure Castiel or offer him comfort. In a way, this is him punishing both angles for getting him in this predicament. Castiel should have been checking on Dean more often, especially since he's so young, and, hello, his boyfriend, and Dean should have admitted that he needed help earlier.

       Dumbasses.

       "Your vocabulary is very colorful today."

       "Oh, what? You heard that? Good. Learn something from it." Finally, Balthazar breaks past the first layer of damage, and starts administrating first aid to the bruising, bleeding, and...other gross things. He snaps his fingers, summoning thick gauze, alcohol wipes, tweezers, and oil. "This better not happen again. I have no pity, so don't be offended if I ignore your prayers." he says. He rubs an alcohol wipe along Dean's skin none too gently, satisfied by the small whimper of pain that comes out.

       If Dean weren't so tired, he would probably throw curses at Balthazar's ugly face right about now. Instead he screams again, then howls hopelessly, tears streaming down his face.

       "Stop it." Castiel reprimands.

       "He started it...."

       Puss and blood soak the cloth through and through. The wipes get tossed away like rags.

       Finally, the first portion of Dean's wing is cleaned. Now, the older feathers--a majority of them enveloped in chunks of flesh at the tips--are removed and stacked in a disorderly pile next to him. Balthazar can see healthy, pink skin as he nears the roots. As expected, the hidden baby feathers are white; a little wet from the alcohol wipes, but otherwise okay. "Looks like you're gonna be alright kid." he says.

       Castiel rubs his lower back soothingly, digging into the muscle with strong fingers. He doesn't care how Balthazar might look at him. He just wants Dean to feel safe.

       This goes on for about another hour, Balthazar plucking concealed grey feathers that he'd missed and then wiping down the skin with the wipes. He wraps Dean's left wing up with gauze. Castiel suggests that Dean have a small break before moving on to the next one, insisting that he couldn't get away even if he wanted to. Not only is the poor angle tired, but with his wing bandaged up, no air circulation can get past the barrier of gauze. And he would be in too much pain to try anyway.

 Only begrudgingly did Balthazar agree, rising up from his seated position on Dean's back.

* * *

       

       "Okay, well...that was disgusting. And I hope you both know that this going to cost you, and that this will never, ever," Balthazar emphasizes every word, creeping toward the door, ",happen again. Got it? Good." He disappears back to wherever he came from, the only belongings of his left over: extra gauze, wipes, and oil for Dean to use daily from now on until his wings have healed.

       Castiel can barely thank him before his brother bolts. He prays to him instead, smiling at Balthazar's snarky response.

**_Quit thanking me and keep an eye on him. You owe me more oil by the way. That shit's expensive._  **

_Noted._

       He puts his "seriously concerned" face back on and returns to Dean. The young angel drifts in and out of consciousness on Castiel's bed. The downy covers lay on middle of his back to avoid irritating his wings and more discomfort. Although their vessels can't get cold, Castiel notices the shivers shaking Dean's body. It's probably from the lack of grace in his system. Without a proper supply, simple tasks such as healing and flying could become a burden on the shoulders of an angel. The vessel can also become affected as well, physically; hence Dean's tiredness and irritability.

       If the younger angel can learn to take care of himself, Castiel is sure that he would be at peace with himself and their relationship more. But this is not the case, and he has no doubt that Dean will have to adjust to having needs of his own rather than being needed for mundane tasks.

       He situates himself next to the angel after putting the medical supplies away. He takes caution of Dean's wings, steering clear of them, trying to find a suitable position for him to lay in. Although his room is decorated with a California king sized bed, with the size of their wings trying to get comfortable requires a lot of adjusting. Dean lay looks comfortable, but Cas can't help but worry.

       Eventually, he manages to secure a small space on the edge of the bed. He runs his fingers through Dean's short, brown hair, and tries to smile at his dopey eyes. Castiel gingerly massages his scalp.

       Dean hears Castiel talking to him, but the majority of his words resonate as hums and vibration in his ears. The weight of his wings cause him to sink into the sheets like stone and turn into putty at the mercy of Castiel's hands; the massage on his head helps to dull the pain there.

       "I love you Dean." Castiel coos, placing a chaste kiss on his sweaty brow.

       "Sorry Cas." Dean slurs. And he truly is sorry, what with all the crap that he put Castiel and Balthazar through.

       "I want to say it's okay Dean, but this really isn't. I don't want you to hurt for anybody else's sake, be it God or the other angels."

       "Mhm." Dean whimpers. His lips upturn into a pout, unshed tears burning his already-puffy eyes.

       "For now just rest. Take it easy for a while. Take a few days off with me." Castiel suggests.

       Dean grits his teeth as he moves his right wing so Castiel can maneuver underneath it. He doesn't regret the fiery hot pain that burns down his back, or Castiel's exasperated sigh. He can't be judged for wanting comfort.

      "No, you can't be." Castiel capitulates. He snuggles closer to Dean, his own wings tucked snuggly on his back now, cradled by Dean's slightly smaller ones. "So I'll gladly give it to you, as long as you need it."

                       

**Author's Note:**

> How did I do?


End file.
